picked food is complex
hard to grow, with goodness sparse
slow to chew, digest
native creatures evolved
balancing, yield, taste, and toil
mouthfuls interlaced
fiber, protein, starch, cells, grit
a feast in wholemeal
hunger sated, kept at bay
with low-density nurture
then came processing
oils distilled to easy fare,
grains stripped to white ghost
sugar added to boost taste
complexity was erased
Sweetness in a flash
fat that melts before the tongue
salt sharpening crave
a banquet turned to quick hits
food factories replaced fields
food calorie dense
drove people to gorge too much
with same portion size
so they all became obese
as their bodies begged for more
evidence is clear
just see how fast, how sudden
Polynesians who
adopted Western diets
became fat and unhealthy
rich over-processed
food mutes satiety's bell
body asks for more
calorie-dense concoctions
devoid of complexity
I
A portly man out on a stroll
approached an egg and ate him whole.
II
When he saw what he had done,
he ate another one.
III
This man, beyond reproaching,
was thrown in jail for poaching.
A Friday,
a plane crash,
a phone call,
all it took
for your whole world to shatter.
You never got to tell them
how you’d follow in his footsteps
in his wing span
You never got to tell him
that you only wished to follow
in that Cessna Skylane
one three-pronged tragedy
became the axis
around which the rest of your stories
would turn
one sorrowful night
changed who you were
forever
and by the time I came along
all your fire
ferocity,
passion
had crashed into electric wire
erupted into flames
had been decapitated
and so it is left to me
to honor your mother,
and your brother
in ways you never taught me
but I learned anyway.
And I will ignore
the memory of Grandpa George,
because he crashed that damn plane
on purpose…
or did he?
Through the beige isle, veins of green holler aloud
Lush foliages of maple, yet I pick upon a rosebud
Mists of sentiment brabble, springing whistles of reminiscing
From the floor, they call out to me, unrelenting
I kept at it, pacing across the vast meadow
Lights begin to dim, even so, I shall escape under the nightly glow
Along the paths, I turned over, my gaze fixed on a lonely, yet luminous flower
Gasping for its life, each breath drew me closer, soon after, I saw it flicker
Taken aback, with these bare hands, I gave it my company
As it swayed, we fell in harmony
The fickle daffodil bathed in silence, hapless, it let out a thud
Gently, sunlight veiled its charcoal petals, a light breeze blew, and I too shall return to mud
Dark red, luscious apples felled from her own tree long ago
Under the beaming sun plummeted with a soft, aching blow
The sweat drips and plops, scruple over a furrowed brow
Upon the discovery of rot that blackened her plow
“Has the wind gone mad–or am I the one insane?
Dirt and grime, high dry–surely the only way to explain”
Denial among hatred, she could not face–but under the murk, bits
Beneath, the snakes–surly and shabby—placed high their bids
The heat danced faster as the days passed far less paced
Her blonde hair bleached and pruned, but left one space
The temple on her right seemed blank and bruised
As a failed blow far too long past was nearly used
The magazine fell as she begins filtering the rot past her mind
She screams, shouts, yelps and cries, sobs of an animal forgotten by time
“I never meant for this to go–go and blow up like this!
I never meant. . . I never meant for me to hurt our kids.”
Too far from gone she was, behind silken white bars and drenched in ammonia
“I know, my love, but I must leave and forget you—may heaven forbid us, Aurora”
I stood on the gravel pathway,
feeling the wind gently kiss my face,
and the sweet scent of cherry blossoms,
mingling with the air.
My hands went up to my mouth,
covering my gasp,
as I saw him kneel down on one knee,
a velvet box in his hands.
A gentle smile adorned his face,
as he looked up,
gazing with a loving look that I knew all too well.
Tears ran down my face.
I couldn’t believe what was happening.
My breath stopped,
my heart beating rapidly.
Today, the person I had loved for seven years,
was finally proposing-
to another woman in front of me.
I'm not insane.
I swear to God, I just wanted to help her.
To reach out and save her.
I grabbed her, to urge her to move.
That's when I recognized the terror on her face.
She was scared, just like me. I didn't like that.
Don't be scared.
I'm just trying to help.
"P-please...don't."
I sighed as she stammered out those words when I held her hand gently.
I know.
I'm not going to hurt you. Stop begging.
I hate it.
A few moments later, I calmed her down, hugging her body as I lulled her to sleep.
She must be so exhausted from all that running she did.
Poor little thing.
As I pulled her close, to warm her cold body, I felt a bit uncomfortable, as I felt something sharp against my chest.
So, I pulled the knife out of her heart and wiped off the blood.
She'll be able to relax now.
She’s at it again.
Wasting my ink
staging yet another death.
I draft her crimson melodramas
with third-hand metaphors
as she sips on ‘hope’ like tonic
laced with rust
and wears ‘moor’ like thrift-store perfume.
I thread her June into
forced sonnets (poor things),
before her gin drowned the meter
in proofed regret.
Even a pen gets impatient.
Sometimes she pauses,
as though it might save her—
I rooted for her to mature
but talent won’t bloom from
immature theatrics.
Still, I ink her curtain call—
the curse of being a vessel.
A night in fragments—
Breath reeked mildewed regrets,
and static collided behind my eyes.
I tasted shattered neon,
sipping cheap club gin.
Even alcohol can’t silence the poet—
I mock her perfumed clichés,
but still draft her eulogy
in thrifted elegance.
“I hate writing blind,” I muttered
as gin bled through crooked verses—
March 14th,
a drunk poet sighed—
Her pen staged the week’s second tragedy.
At least yesterday’s wasn’t on paper.
The world got caught under her breath
They could never hear her precious mumbling, only realized when she left
One second she was there
One second she was floating in timeless air
In a wisp of whimsical space
She would show her elegant face
A polaroid of a perfect smile
Commanding regretful tears and remembrance of all the distant years
Her blood was on the hands of many,
No one predicted the coming tragedy
Her life not quite a blissful blur
But rather a silent stab of sadness
She left no note or collective clues
That might have calmed you
No lying lyrics that provoked pointless pity in
Some that might have said torturing her was comedy
She only left a small reminder to anyone who could find her
And that is this…
“Dying is easy my friend, living is harder.”
Perhaps I wouldn't move
if the train came.
Not out of courage,
just curiosity.
What does it feel like?
or just the experience, maybe.
I sit down in the shower sometimes
until the water forgets it's warm
and I forget
I have skin.
In that moment,
and that moment only
I think nothing
but oh, I feel-
I feel everything
like a flood, swirling, raging inside,
beating ferociously on the locked doors.
On the surface?
an ingrained smile,
a shrug,
a practiced "whatever."
I'm not good at
being good.
Not when good means
loud, bright, easy.
Sometimes I scream
like my ribs are splitting,
but my voice, my throat-
remain stubbornly silent.
I wish one day,
you would knock,
and no one would answer-
No one would come to the door.
Because perhaps I'd have reached where I've always wanted to be,
or perhaps I'm just not there anymore.
Of imagery in yonder meadow
she had much to say
from daffodils on rolling hills
to ivy covered fences
Yet of tragedy she would not write
of carnivores contending
for the hoof of a femme fatale
~ She could not bear the ending
Indie swizz
Green and white
On top of hills
A view unlike
A tale of heaven, a place to repent
Now is none but a grave of men,
The song of winds turned to echoes of mist,
The crown of hind, now blood missed
Quite waters, a red fountain
Land of joy now weeps with mothers' cries
A bride, a child travelled to enjoy
But the bullets pierced the house's spine
Those who rose from side across
Left precise, showed no remorse
Pairs all broke, thrice all torn
The one's who left can only mourn
A woven day in a ruined past
Shook the world, now and will
A lesson learned
To never forgive
She wore a ribbon red as flame,
he carved her secret in his name.
They danced beneath the open skies,
with stars like lanterns in their eyes.
The campfire laughed, the horses swayed,
the fiddles sang while nightbirds prayed.
Their vows were stitched with whispered thread,
"Till death," they swore, "no tears to shed."
But Fortune's wheel turned rough and wild--
the lawman came to claim their child.
A fortune-teller saw too late--
the cards had sealed a crooked fate.
They rode like ghosts through iron rain,
the mountains swallowed up their pain.
Yet dawn betrayed their broken flight--
two shadows fell in dying light.
The caravan still hums their song,
a love too bright, a loss too strong.
And every fire that gypsies light,
still weeps for them across the night.
Some say when midnight paints the skies,
you'll hear their laughter where it lies--
two spirits twirling hand in hand,
forever free across the land.
A tragedy occurred was the news
A young boy died in a bus crash
He was with other students too
When the bus got a tire flat
To send your child on a field trip
And have it end his life is insane
Parents hearts forever ripped
Finally they released his name
Maybe seat belts on busses may
Void a future tragedy one day
But that would cost the state
Likely they won’t want to pay
So they will keep old bus fleet
While in crashes kids are dying
Just as they don’t value life
Look at the parents suing for rights
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